Easy Jet rules

Looking back over my previous blogs, I remembered the one I wrote whilst trying to purchase plane tickets for our holiday to Portugal. This reminded me of the hell that was Gatwick on that sunny morning that we flew out there.

Coming from so far away, and being naturally nervous flyers, we always arrive at least five hours early. Our children moan like hell, but have grown to accept that this is just the way it is and always will be, forever and ever, Amen.

So, we had a coffee and a mooch around and did a spot of people watching (the large girl in the leopard skin jumpsuit being the most entertaining) before deciding to queue up. We were still very early, at least two hours before our flight left, but the queue we joined practically went all the way back to Devon. We were tired. We were grumpy, and both my husband and I were getting those jitters that a fear of flying produces before you even get on the plane. When you start reaching for the worry beads and thinking that, actually, you do believe in God after all.

We had hardly progressed at all having waited for an hour, when our flight was actually called, so we were directed to the front by the harrassed looking staff, who were trying to make some order out of the chaos.

Finally, we got to the check out. Now, due to my computer incompetence, and the lack of clarity of the Easy Jet website, I had done three separate bookings. The first was supposed to be for four of us, but ended up having only my name on it, so I'd done another for my husband and two children, and a third when our other child finally decided he could come too (I find you can always persuade your grown up children to come on holiday with you if you pay for them. Call it bribing, but it works every time).

I had paid for two bags on the first booking, and not added any subsequent bags on the other bookings because both our sons travel light and could manage with only hand luggage, and my daughter was persuaded that she didn't need any evening dresses, evening shoes, or half a ton of makeup, since we were so broke having paid for the holiday, we would not be going out at all.

Feeling quite smug that we'd managed to limit our weight to 40 kgs, I was astounded when the lady told us we were some 7 kilos overweight.

'How can that be?' I protested, the panic rising like bile inside me, as I calculated the cost of this. She explained, slowly, and several times, that you only got 20kgs per booking, and so we could have only 20kgs for the whole lot of us, even though I had paid for two bags, anc clearly all of our stuff was distributed between them. Eventually, I understood, and conscious of the queue of people still waiting to check in behind us, we started to try and cram as much into the boys' rucksacks as possible, but only got it down by about 3kgs, with the rucksacks threatening to burst at the seams.

She must have seen the hot flush come whooshing up into my face, and the caffeine induced shaking hands (causing the children to temporarily disown me) for eventually she took pity on us and shoved one of the bags over onto another of the bookings. I couldn't help wonder why she hadn't done this straight away, since it was obvious we were all one family.

Still, I was eternally grateful.

More lane rage

I haven't had a good old moan about swimming for a long time, but recently I was reminded of the frustrations which swimming engenders.

I thought Sunday morning might be quiet. How wrong could I be? It was like the M4 on a Bank Holiday weekend. Having scanned the horizon for any possible spaces, I decided my best bet was to follow this (nice)woman who looked to be going about the same speed as me. A bit like dolphins at the wake of a boat, the only time you have to divert from your path is when you pass them coming towards you as you go the other way. My own invented swimming etiquette demands that I be the one to take avoidance action, since I am encroaching on her lane. Ergo, someone who comes in after me should do the same for me.

Oh no. In comes this exocet missile of a woman and I realise, almost too late, that her etiquette (or lack thereof) does not follow the same rules as mine. There is no way she is going to move, which means I then have to avoid a collision with the nice lady who let me follow her. I dodge round, doing my speediest crawl, before getting back into my very narrow lane and resuming my more leisurely breast stroke. The next time I ended up at the rail with Nice Lady (which only happens every ten lengths or so) I apologised for my actions, and she was very gracious about accepting, commenting that this kind of swimming wasn't 'very relaxing'. I agreed wholeheartedly. I really wanted to stay at the rail a while and have a good old bitch about Madam Exocet and her lack of manners, but swimming isn't really the time to do that. We're all on a mission, which is to do our lengths as quickly as possible and get the hell out of there.

I tried to send subliminal evil thoughts to my enemy, to make her have some kind of guilty conscience for what she'd done to me, but I don't think it worked. And I did wonder what would happen if we all took her stand and simply refused to compromise (ie divert our course). There'd be a multiple pile up before you knew it. At least the lifeguard, commatose with boredom and bitter and twisted about having to sit there on a Sunday morning after a hard Saturday night's clubbing, would have something to do.

Can I talk to a human?

I recently bought 5 airline tickets on Easy Jet. THis, in itself, is a bit of a mission because what starts out seeming like a good deal ends up at least £50 per ticket more expensive than you originally thought, but that's not what I'm moaning about today.

When I had finally trawled through the pages and came to the point of printing off the tickets, (something which always makes me nervous, being of the generation where you had a nice card ticket enclosed in a handy wallet, which arrived by post. Most reassuring) I noticed an alarming message in red alert print:

URGENT! You cannot fly without providing this information.... which turned out to be the passport numbers of all the passengers. Unfortunately, two passports were not available to me, but I figured I could get back into my booking and alter it once they were. This was my first mistake.

Having found out all I needed from one of the passports, I steeled myself and re-entered the EJ website, eventually finding something called api (or something like that) which I figured out (several hours later) might mean: additional passenger information. I entered everything that was required and waited for a confirmation email. This did not arrive, so I had no way of knowing whether I had been successful or not. But it didn't stop there.

Passport number two became available and I tried again. This time the web page would not come up and no matter how many times I tried, the same message of doom appeared. It said something about a cake and a browser, and something about an ej/2 error. Needless to say, this was meaningless gobbledygook to me.

In a panic, I perused the website for a phone number, so I could speak to someone, anyone, a human voice, and ask for their help and reassurance. But the closest thing I could find was an on-line chat type thing. I duly typed in my problem and waited for the anonymous 'voice' to type an answer.

I was promised a prompt response to my question and this is the 'conversation' I had.

(Me) I am trying to add the passport information of all passengers I am travelling with. I cannot do this and am worried you will not let us on the flight, as your warnings are clear. What am I supposed to do?

Several minutes later...

(Mr Yassine) Hi

Five minutes later..

(Mr Yassine) May I ask you why you can't add the ID details please?

(Me - immediately) Because it keeps coming up with a page that tells me there's been an ej/2 error.

(Mr Yassine) Allow me one minute please+

Twenty minutes and still no answer.

(Me) Where are you?

Mr Yassine did not reappear, and I eventually told him I had a life and had to go.

Discussing my dilemma with a self confessed computer geek, I was reassured that what had in fact happened was that the cookie was in the browser.

Ah, now it's all clear. (???? WHAT?)

I was also advised what to do about it, but I didn't understand the instructions for that either.

So, I'm no further on and am mentally preparing myself for another conversation with Mr Yassine, hopefully with a more fruitful conclusion. Otherwise, there's going to be some very disgruntled passengers when we turn up to fly on our two week summer holiday and they tell us we can't get on because we haven't provided the information they needed.

If anyone from Easy Jet reads this, or anyone who knows what I can do, and can communicate in English and not computer speak, please get in touch!

Pizza eating competitions

Apparently, they are trying to make pizza eating competitions into an Olympic sport. Their arguments run along the lines that it requires jaw strength, hand ability and stomach capacity, therefore it qualifies as a sport. Dan 'Deep Dish' Doherty is the current world champion.

I'm sorry, but I think food eating competitions are not just sick, they are actually immoral. Whilst a great deal of the people in our world don't have enough to eat, we in the West are busy stuffing our faces until we literally puke, to win a bloody trophy. It's really not funny.

It makes me sick!

Name droppers

I recently had the opportunity to meet a couple of brothers who seemed to, between them, know every famous person in the world, most of whom I'd never heard of, so it was hard to be impressed. Still, dinner with Kissinger does sound quite cool. Although I thought he was dead. I'm not sure about Nixon being a 'nice guy', but who am I to judge? I've never met him.

The stream of name dropping quickly grew quite tedious and I wondered why these men felt compelled to do this in such a compulsive way. Do they really think ordinary lives are so dull that others will only be interested if you can pepper your conversation with celebrities? It ended up making them look rather sad and pathetic, as if their lives were so empty they could only get off on the backs of other people. Actually, they'd both had quite interesting lives without having to mention anyone well known.

Or maybe it annoyed me because they didn't ask me any questions about my life? I mean, I'm not a bad listener, but this was not conversation, it was a monologue. I can handle Alan Bennett's monologues, but that's about it.

Or, even worse, maybe I resented the fact it brought out a side of me which wanted to compete by listing any encounter I've had with anyone vaguely well known, thereby lowering myself to their level.

Chihuahuas

DOn't get me wrong, I love dogs. I love their loyalty, and their eagerness and their affection. But chihuahuas are grotesque. They look like little gremlins, and when I see one, I have this horrible urge to tread on it, as if it's some sort of vermin. I am not normally violent, and this compulsion worries me.

Plus, chihuahua owners treat them as if they're babies, dressing them up in foul little outfits and talking to them in gaga language. So, perhaps it's not the poor little dog's fault, but their owners who should be trodden on.

This is a Happy Place

Recently I have noticed a strange phenomenom springing up in Wellington, our nearest town. Many of the shops have taken to putting signs in their windows declaring 'This is a Happy Place'. I walked into one not long ago, and the woman was miserable as sin, and rude to boot. So I don't believe them. You don't need to tell people you're happy, just show them!

If we all smiled a bit more, I'm sure the world would be a happier place.

Sandra's words of wisdom.

Conferencing

I phoned up the school where I used to teach to offer a bird box with a camera in it (my sister in law is a very generous person, and in theory it's a great present, but in practice I can't see my husband and I sitting watching eggs hatching out very often, much more beneficial for a school full of children).

Anyway, I digress from the moan. In response to my question, 'May I please speak to the head?' the nice lady who answered said, 'I'm afraid she's conferencing with a group of children at the moment.'

Conferencing? What the hell is that. Does it mean 'talking' with them. If so, then why not call it that. Since when was a school a corporate organisation where you have 'conferences'.

I hate the whole bent towards making everything into a business, so that you don't have pupils any longer, you have 'learners'. What's wrong with the word pupils, or even children? And 'targets', why impose targets on young children. Often targets they can't hope to achieve, because, as we know, children all develop at different rates and in different ways. So whole year targets are desperately unfair on those who may have had a blip in their progress.

I could go on and on about many things that make my blood boil about our education system, but I won't because I have to go to work, but conferencing does seem to me the last straw.

Toxic anti bacterial sprays

I'm going to have a moan about the overuse of these nasty toxic sprays that the advertisers would lead us to believe are absolutely essential for our health and welfare. You see these sanitised women spraying every surface compulsively, as soon as anything has been put on it. No germ is allowed to reproduce and they have lovely, clean, white homes, safe for their children, which they clearly love more than I love mine (the ads would have you believe). My theory is that they are directly responsible for the rise in allergies such as excema and asthma (this is obviously not based on any scientific knowledge whatsoever) and the continual coughs and colds many of the young seem to suffer from. A little dirt is good, it builds up immunity. (That's what I always tell myself, anyway, when I can't be bothered to do the cleaning)

In the pub, where I work, the young seem to have been totally brainwashed by the type of ads mentioned above. They use the clear anti bacterial spray to wipe down the tables, without first giving them a good old rub with soap and water, which is what actually removes all the grease and things that work their way into the wood. In my view, although the germs might be gone, these tables are not actually properly clean.

At the end of service, when we're tidying up and wiping down and I'm clutching my trusty hot wet cloth with a bit of washing up liquid on it, they are busy spraying all the work surfaces with white foamy stuff with the enthusiasm which a 14 year old boy might douse himself in Lynx, or FCUK or some such foul deoderant/body spray.

This supposedly grease dissolving foam, bubbles up in a menacing way and the fumes penetrate deep into all our lungs.

I say, what's wrong with good old hot water and soap? In my view, the only time these types of products need to be used is when you have about 20 years worth of encrusted black shit lining the inside of your cooker (such as I do). Then, you will be forgiven for using it, but remove any living creature from the building while it works its evil.

There's also a little sneaking suspicion that the obsessive spraying and rubbing is an excellent way of avoiding picking up a dish towel and doing some good old fashioned drying up. These two jobs go on simultaneously at the end of a shift, and guess who always ends up drying?

Insurance scams

Another one offered by my grumpy young son.

The screen on his Nokia phone went blank, and as he had insured it (which is compulsory when you buy them) he wasn't too bothered. So he phoned them up to explain, which was difficult as he had no screen to look at.

They explained that, as the screen was considered a 'spare part', it does not lie within the warranty guidelines.

Bloody typical! What exactly isn't a spare part?

Ridiculous. Mutter, mutter, moan, groan.

Sending a new book to agents

Right, I'm in a total stress. I've just spent at least two hours on one stupid submission, this one requiring me to put my name and title of my book on the top of every page. I did this, then rejigged a few things and the bloody name and title went out of synch and ended up in the middle of the pages. ARRGGHHHHH. Why do they ask us to do this kind of thing? It's all in a bloody email anyway. I think they make it deliberately difficult so you give up and don't bother them with what, quite frankly, they are 99.9% likely to reject.

Each agent has a different request for submissions. The permutations would have someone interested in probability doing a major study. Whilst one will ask for a synopsis and three sample chapters, one will ask for the same but a CV; another will ask for an 'informative letter', 4 chapters and a writing biography (what bloody writing biography, I haven't got one yet because no one wants me!!). The postage alone costs hundreds of pounds, then there's the photocopying costs for those who won't accept email submissions. You just know they probably read the first line of your letter and bin the whole lot.

I feel like killing myself now.

Health and Safety

This is an account of Josh's experience on the train the other day.

It all started when he fancied a cup of coffee, so he went to the 'mobile service unit' (tea trolley to you and me) which actually wasn't mobile at all. So far so good.

Having got his coffee, he asked the guy in charge if he could rest his cup on his mobile service unit whilst he put his milk and sugar in. The train was packed and there was nowhere else to rest it.

MSU man: 'No, sorry, health and safety I'm afraid'.

Josh: 'What do you mean?'

MSU man: 'Well, you know...'

Josh: 'No, not really, I mean, what's actually dangerous? What could happen if I put my cup down here and stir my coffee?'

MSU man, cryptically: 'Oh, you know, it's every man for himself these days.'

Josh: 'What??! What are you talking about?'

MSU man: Silence. Then, 'Look,' he said, chuffed with himself, indicating an alcove which housed a fire extinguisher, 'you could use that. See, it's the perfect height and everything.'

Josh: 'Oh yes, that's perfect, plus, if my coffee sets on fire, I can use the extinguisher to put it out and then the Health and Safety people would be really happy.'

MSU man: 'Yeah, they would.'


This, I think, demonstrates perfectly the lack of humour which the implementation of health and safety regulations seems to generate. A nation of parrots mouthing 'NO sorry, it's health and safety' without question.

Another thing he saw was a sign on the escalator saying, 'Please don't walk backwards down the escalator'.

True, that's probably not a good idea, and 99% of people won't walk down backwards. So where do you stop? Surely they should also mention that people should not jump up and down, stand on one leg, do a handstand, a headstand or a cartwheel..... the list is endless.

But really, it's our fault. If we stop sueing organisations for giving us a hot cup of coffee, then maybe they'd stop treating us like complete morons. It's really down to us.

Number 4 - Big man squeezing woman

Occasionally, maybe at a party, or in high spirits, I have been picked up by a man (normally a fairly burly one, who can take my weight) and squeezed.

I am sure this is done with fondness, and not to prove how strong and manly they are, but the result, for me, is unfortunate.

The squeeze produces an involuntary reaction and rather like one of those crying/peeing dolls, I wee in my pants. For those of you who have never done this, it is actually an incredibly humiliating experience, even though one tries to make it seem funny. But walking around with wet knickers is not at all funny.

So this is actually more than annoying, it is downright mean. Next time you are tempted to squeeze a woman, just remember this. Or at least give us enough warning so that we can locate our weak little pelvic floor muscles and get them working, or cross our legs.

You will save many of us an indignity we don't deserve.

Annoying thing - 3

Hummers....! What on earth?

These are the most ridiculous cars imaginable, despite the advertising blurb which maintains that their off road capability and stylish interior 'create the ultimate in rugged sophistication'. Since when have tanks been in any way sexy or sophisticated? What a load of rubbish.

Whose idea was it to invent some trumped up macho hideous, petrol guzzling, environmentally unfriendly vehicle as this? They actually remind me of those tiny pull back toy cars that used to be popular in the eighties. You could buy them in sets. The kids loved them. But why make them giant sized, for real?

Thank goodness their popularity seems to have waned. May I suggest if you're tempted by a hummer, you should consider joining the Army. Then you can drive something remarkably similar, wear a uniform and shoot people. That should make you feel like a real man.

Things that annoy me 2

Have you ever been waiting in a busy car park for a space? One of those car parks where someone else, who has come in behind you, might get a space before you do? Annoying, aren't they? Especially when you see someone get in their car, give them a quick bit of eye contact and mouth 'Are you leaving?' and they answer with a thumbs up.

They proceed to get into the driving seat and you wait. You wait while they check out their make up in the mirror. You wait while they fiddle about with their seat belt. You wait while they get out a sandwich and open it up and eat it. Very very slowly.

Having finished this, they check their face in the mirror, fiddle with their seat belt again, turn on the radio and finally, when you're ready to explode with rage, turn the engine on and drive out.

In the meantime, the 500 cars that came into the car park AFTER YOU have already been and done their shopping. I'm sorry, but I think homicide is justified for such people. Car park rage. That would be my excuse.

Annoying things - 1

I plan to write something which annoys me each week, maybe even two or three times a week (depending on how bad it's been).

Isn't it annoying when people ignore you when you're waiting at a counter, and they are behind it but busy doing something else? Usually something which doesn't seem that important. Not nearly as important as serving you.

Rather than looking up and acknowledging your presence, some people choose to pretend you aren't even there. This makes me think very evil thoughts. If they just said, 'Sorry, I'll be with you in a minute?' the tension would subside and you would love them. It's that easy.

Stupid bastards.